


Racking up Demerits

by Kahvi



Category: Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8871016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: It's 1986 in Hill Valley, and everything and everyone is back to normal. But is that even possible when you've been erased from existence and had your whole life re-written more than once? Who is Doc, now? And who, when you get right down to it, is Marty McFly?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Willdew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willdew/gifts).



**June 29th, 1986**

In some states, turning 18 would mean he’d be drinking this beer legally, but California not being not one of them, Marty kept glancing around as he took sip by careful sip. He hadn’t been surprised, exactly, when Doc had offered a can to him when he took one for himself; after all, Doc had seen him drinking 100 years ago and hadn’t said anything about it then. Still, for want of a better word, this… Doc’s yard, in the Hill Valley close enough to the one he’d grown up in as to make no difference, was different. Somehow. Like this was reality, and everywhere else they’d been didn’t matter. 

Jennifer’s voice rang out from what passed for the kitchen in Doc’s converted garage, laughter at some unheard joke from Clara, who was busy with her latest experiment at one of the many worktables further in. Birds chirruped. On the clunky-looking barbeque, two generous racks of ribs were slowly and erratically marinating themselves via a complicated array of rods, brushes and basters. 

“No use worrying yourself sick about it,” Doc said, still staring up at nothing in particular through mirrored glasses. Marty hadn’t seen that particular pair before, and caught himself wondering if.. Well… the _other_ Doc had owned a similar pair. The same pair? How did that work? 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Timelines. Alternates. When you came back to 1985 that first time…”

“...when I saved your life, you mean?” 

“All right, yes; one of the many times you’ve saved my life. Satisfied?” 

They grinned at one another, Doc pulling the sunglasses off and onto his head, slicking back wild hair. He looked more like Emmet, that way. Young Emmet, that was. It was so _hard_ not to think of them as separate people. “Maybe.” 

“Well, you had no doubts I was the same person then, did you?” 

“That’s different.”

“Different how?” 

“Just…” You hadn’t been erased from existence.Twice. You hadn’t turned into a different person with no memory of me, then back into someone with a memory of someone who might be me. “...different.” 

Doc nodded. “I see.” He reached down into the cooler and pulled out another beer, shaking it free of ice and water, then handed it to Marty. 

“Thanks, but I’m still…” He shook his bottle, and realized it was empty. “Uh,thanks.” He set it down and reached for the new one. 

Doc watched him for a while, throwing the odd watchful glance at the slowly spinning roasts. “What do you remember,” he asked, suddenly, “of Citizen Brown’s Hill Valley?” 

Marty choked on his beer. “Citizen Brown?”

“That’s what I called myself, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I mean… yeah.”

“Well? What do you remember?”

“Uh, all of it? I guess? It wasn’t that long ago.”

Doc waved an irritated hand. “No, no. Not what you experienced; what the other Marty experienced.”

“Wait, what do you mean? What other Marty?”

“The Marty who originated in that timeline.” 

Marty narrowed his eyes. It was mid-day, and the heat was getting worse. He put the bottle down and wiped his forehead. He was getting dizzy; not the beer, surely? He’d barely had one. “You mean the Marty who would have existed in that reality? The geeky loser?” 

“Not would have; who did exist.” Doc’s mouth twitched at the ‘geeky loser’ comment. 

“Whatever; he doesn’t exist anymore.”

Another irritated wave. “Never mind all that. Do you remember?” 

“What are you saying; what do you mean, remember? How could I…”

* * *

Martin lay in bed, looking up at the poster of the 1978 Hill Valley science fair. It was a large, grey arch on a lighter grey background, with a rising sun in bright, light yellow just behind it. The words “science” and “progress” were embossed at the top and bottom, and at the center, standing in the archway with his arms wide open, stood Citizen Brown himself. As always, he was wearing a white lab coat, with a sensible poloneck shirt underneath, and well-pressed slacks. Martin always felt so reassured, looking at that calm, smiling face. Like everything was going to be all right, and that if he worked hard, one day, he could be as calm and happy and safe as that man. For as long as he could remember, Martin had wanted one thing, and one thing only - to be the best possible citizen he could be. 

The thing he did not even dare to dream, but sometimes, on days like this, when he had just gotten his report card back, done all his chores and knew he had done his very, very best, allowed himself to think, very quietly, was this: Maybe, if he was diligent enough and loyal and hard working enough, one day, he would get to meet Citizen Brown. 

It was a dangerous thought. It made him feel light, and tingly, almost like he couldn’t breathe. But Martin had done well today, so he let himself wallow in it, just for a moment. Just for a little while. Eventually, blissfully, he drifted off to sleep. 

 

Breaking up with Jennifer was hard, but he had to do it. Which is why it was such a relief when _she_ broke up with _him_. Martin liked her, liked her very much, and had always felt she was so much smarter than she allowed herself to let on, but he simply could not be associated with someone who was racking up demerits like she did. The books on adolescent psychology he’d picked up at the library all pointed to the fact that her behavior most likely was a phase, and would eventually peter out, though it wasn’t always too easy to tell with all the redacted parts. There were quite a lot of redacted parts, especially in the chapters on sexuality. At least he assumed that’s what they were about; the titles of most of them had been redacted too. It made a lot of sense. After all, sexuality was a dangerous and distracting force, keeping productive citizens from fulfilling their duties efficiently. He’d told Jennifer as much, and she’d laughed in his face and handed him back the ukulele he’d given her. 

When you knew how to play the guitar, it was honestly quite easy to pick up the ukulele. Martin had barely had his for three months, and already he could play through almost all of “Oh By Jingo” in the original notation, although he was still struggling with “47 Ginger Headed Sailors”. The chord changes were just so intense, and he couldn’t figure out the strumming, but he stuck with it as best he could. One day, just as a way to help himself remember, he got his old guitar out of the garage and tried to play it on that. It should be easier on an instrument he knew better, but all that came out was an odd sort of mewling noise. He mentioned it to his father, but all he did was look at Martin a bit sadly and say “but you never learned how to play that thing, Marty.” Martin corrected him on the name and went back to his room. Of course he knew how to play the guitar. Why else would he have one? 

 

“How did you and mom meet?” Martin asked his father, one morning not long after. 

“Why the sudden interest?” His father looked curiously at him over glasses fogged over from hot coffee. 

Martin shrugged. “I was just wondering, that’s all.” 

“Well now, since you ask,” his father said, leaning forward enthusiastically. “It’s actually rather a funny story...”

Martin listened politely, paying more attention to the movement of his spoon in the corn flakes bowl than his father’s voice. He honestly wasn’t sure why he’d asked; he’d never been terribly interested in family history, though of course McFly was a good, solid Hill Valley name. His parents seemed to enjoy the telling of it though, his mother adding the odd comment from across the room, giggling and joking. It was the most Martin had seen her say to his father in weeks. At least that was something. 

“You know,” she said, leaning over him from behind and smiling, “we were around your age when it happened.”

“Almost exactly,” his father added. “Hey, Lorraine; what was the name of that friend of yours?”

“What friend?” The distance was back in her voice. Martin sighed. He didn’t want to start hiding bottles again; he’d be the one who got in trouble if anyone found out. Still, he couldn’t very well report his own mother for use of illegal drugs. Could he? 

“You know, that nice young man who helped us out. The one your father hit with his car!” 

“Dad hit a lot of nice young men in his time,” she muttered, looking for a moment like she was about to light a cigarette, remembering at the last minute that they’d been banned for years. Martin wouldn’t put it past her to have a stash of those too, hidden around somewhere. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Martin said. He really wasn’t sure why he’d asked. He could feel a headache coming on. Maybe he should go to bed early tonight. 

 

The Junior Citizen Brigade meetings always ended with a pre-recorded message from Citizen Brown himself. They got a new tape every Thursday, so Martin liked to ration them out to make them last one week exactly. There were only five messages on every tape, but the meetings weren’t very long and it would not do to go over schedule. What sort of example would that be setting? But it was just him today, Toby having been sent home sick, and Nichola and Angie both on City Beautification duty. The younger kids had compulsory extracurricular activities in school, and only came to the weekend meetings. Truth be told, Martin was getting a little worried about recruitment. Technically, he was allowed to stay on until the end of the year in which he turned nineteen, but with just four of them in the Elite Brigade, and no one but him anything resembling leadership material, they were counting on the younger generation to step up. 

Be that as it may, this afternoon, it was just Martin. He rigged up the VCR carefully, and sat down in front of the large TV the Brigade had been allowed to borrow from the school. Not a lot of people had private television sets these days, not since they started to schedule leisure time more strictly, so this was a rare treat in more ways than one. He was about to start the tape, then jumped up, ran over to the light switch and flicked it off. 

Much better. 

Straightening the legs of his carefully pressed slacks, Martin reached over and pressed ‘play’. Citizen Brown’s face filled nearly the entire screen, and Martin gasped. He couldn’t help it; every time he saw the First Citizen up close like this, it was like seeing a close family friend for the first time in years. He put it down to respect and admiration, but he really must try not to get so emotional. After all, hero worship was as unhealthy as hooliganism, if left unchecked. This particular speech, on the topic of mental hygiene, was one he’d heard before - he suspected they recycled the material compiled for the tapes - but Citizen Brown was as mesmerizing and inspiring as always. As he measuredly and rationally explained the dangers of unchecked imagination and free thought, Martin found himself staring at his hair. A sensible, flattering cut, of course, but again and again, Martin felt his eyes drawn to it. 

Probably just lack of concentration. He really should take an early night. 

 

It wasn’t wrong; no one had ever told him it was. Still, Martin closed his eyes when he pressed his palm against the crotch of his pants, as if looking defined the act. Maybe it did; things changed when you observed them, didn’t they? That was a scientific fact. He always fell asleep after doing this, which meant he ended up sleeping in his clothes a lot of the time, which in turn meant he had to clean and press them most mornings. Good thing he liked to get up early. 

He had to open his fly, eventually; things escalated pretty quickly and the last thing he wanted to do was explain away stains he couldn’t wash out properly. (He’d had to try, once, and it had not gone well. He was still not convinced his mother hadn’t seen right through him.) The moment he had himself fully in hand, Martin opened his eyes at the shock of sensation, then shut them quickly, biting his lip. Jennifer had wanted to do this for him, but he hadn’t let her. They’d only been dating a few months so it didn’t seem proper. But they’d kissed, in private, a lot, and it had filled Martin with such excess nervous energy that he could hardly contain himself until he’d gotten back home and to bed. Sometimes he couldn’t even stand to see her across the room or the other side of the street, knowing he could simply walk over and ask her to touch him. Maybe it was for the best that he no longer could. 

Impossible things were easier to imagine. Martin did so, spilling over his hand and gasping. 

 

Graduation was months ahead, but Martin had not gotten to the head of his class by only doing what was required of him. He enjoyed studying in the library, but he’d read everything they had available by now, and getting books ordered in from other branches was a long and arduous process given that each such request had to be vetted by the First Citizen. Martin put them in anyway, and stopped by every day to see if they had been approved. 

Science was his favorite subject, of course, but he found it easier to do well in math. Numbers made sense in a way even rules and regulations not always did. There was a rhythm to them, a calming certainty which settled him in a way nothing else could, with the possible exception of music. Martin hadn’t been sleeping well lately, so a while ago he’d requested the latest Martin Gardner. A few puzzles before bed, and he wouldn’t be tempted to… well… use other means of relaxation. 

Mrs. Peabody smiled at him the moment he came in, and motioned him towards her desk. Martin hurried over, stepping carefully over the hardwood floor. The boards creaked all too easily. 

“Good morning,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I have something for you.”

“You do? Really?”

“Just arrived this morning.”

“Is it the latest AC/DC?” 

She peered at him over her glasses. “Beg pardon?”

“The lastest… their album?” Martin swallowed. His throat felt dry. He blinked at Mrs. Peabody, who was frowning and whispering something. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I should get going.” 

As he slammed the door behind him, wincing at the sound, he heard her whisper something about a book. 

 

Martin ran all the way across town, from gate to gate and back again. Then around the perimeter of the wall; ran until the sound of his breath and the beat of his pulse were the only things in his mind and body, until there was room for nothing else. He wasn’t wearing regulation gym shorts, and his shoes weren’t made for this and hurt his feet, but he was too numb and exhausted to care. 

When he could no longer sprint, he slowed to a jog, then to trot, and by the time he approached the courthouse, he was practically shuffling his feet. The clock tower loomed above him. He looked up. Searched between the numbers for a clue to what the hell was going on, but nothing stared back at him. There were no answers here. 

Martin wiped his face with the sleeve of his jumper, and slowly walked home. 

 

He could tell the phone call was important from the stiffness of his father’s back, and the careful way in which he set down the receiver. “Who was it,” he asked, when his father said nothing. 

“Oh, just the people running that Maths competition.”

“What competition?”

“The one you’ve been going on and on about! You sent in the application last week.” 

Martin didn’t remember that. He also had no idea who or what AC/DC was. He didn’t know how to play the guitar, and he remembered odd things about his parents that he shouldn’t. “Sure,” he said. 

“Well, the called to say you’re in the finals! It’ll be up at the lake all of next weekend, you’ll have to stay the night.”

“That’ll be fun,” Martin said, because he knew he should want to say it. 

.

* * *

Marty sat up, rubbing his temple. “It _was_ fun.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I didn’t think it would be, but I didn’t have time to think about anything other than equations and theorems.” He shook his head, wildly. “How do I know that? I mean, I barely know what a theorem _is_ ; how come I remember spending a weekend working on them?” Doc was just watching him, smiling, and Marty turned to him angrily. “How am I remembering _any_ of this?”

“Because it happened to you.”

“I didn’t happen to me; it happened to the other Marty.”

“There is no other Marty.”

“Dammit, Doc!” He felt a headache coming on, but couldn’t tell if it was his headache, or the other Martin’s headache, remembered. “You just told me there was!” 

“There is,” Doc said with finality, “and there isn’t.”

“Fine; if you don’t want to tell me…” The poster over his bed. Secretly washing his clothes. Marty felt his pulse rising. Then a hand, gently, on his. 

“Marty. Martin. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Marty did. He tried to focus on Doc’s face, but it was blurry, like a TV screen up close. 

“There can only be one timeline, and there can only be one you, one Marty McFly. You and I are time travellers, which means we can exist in parallel to ourselves, and often have. But when we do, we are still _us_. The same combination of atoms; the same unique mind. The same person. Of course we remember!” 

He wasn’t crying. It was summer, he had a girlfriend and a wonderful life and he was practically an adult. He didn’t cry. “Do you remember,” he asked against Doc’s chest, and felt him smile. 

“Of course I do.”

* * *

“I’ve seen the tapes.” Edna stood in front of his desk, straight as a statue. She was not the pacing type. “There’s another one. He’s got to go.”

“Yes.”

“We both know your weakness, darling. There’s no shame in it, but something must be done. I’ll have him sent away while you relax with some improving self-hypnosis tapes. Perhaps we could use this opportunity to try out some of the Citizen Plus techniques?” Her voice was soothing, her eyes kind. He loved her, he really did. She only wanted what was best. 

“You’re certain he’s…”

“...your type?” She barked a laugh. “Goodness, you’d think he was custom made for you. I caught him loitering around the courthouse twice, trying to get a look at you. Another fawning, hero-worshipping little boy who doesn’t know what’s good for him. Thank goodness I found him in time.”

“Yes, dear.” 

At that, she visibly relaxed. She moved towards him, laying a warm hand on his cheek. Emmet caught and kissed it. “No distractions,” she said, her lips curling, her eyes smiling. 

“No distractions,” Emmett agreed. He did so easily get lost in his own mind, especially these days. And there were so many temptations. “You take such good care of me, my love.” 

“Naturally.”

“The boy… what is his name?” 

But Edna, wise, sweet Edna tutted and shook her head. “No distractions.”

She was right, of course. She always was.


End file.
